by Sandra Balzo
‘None taken,’ Potter said mildly from behind it, seeming pleased by the comparison.
‘Please leave the boy – is it Danny? – alone.’ Grace, kindergarten teacher and apparent defender of the young, spoke up. ‘Who amongst us hasn’t deluded ourselves into thinking we’re the next Hemingway or Christie, just waiting to be discovered?’
A collective sigh – or maybe it was a whimper – came from the assorted aspiring writers seated around me.
I repressed a grin. ‘I suppose it would be logical to think that someone like Mr Potter would be just the person – in fact, that he could feel honored – to do just that.’
‘Not if you knew him,’ a voice behind us muttered.
‘So is the kid’s stuff any good, Larry?’ Prudence asked.
I saw Potter roll his eyes behind the magazine before he finally lowered it to address the question. ‘And how would I know that?’
‘This Danny sent you a manuscript, or so he said.’
‘And perhaps he truly did, but you can’t honestly begin to believe that I open and read what the vast unwashed mail me unsolicited, do you?’
In these days of electronic bills and bill paying, I barely got any postal mail. What I did get were obvious solicitations which I had no trouble discarding. I couldn’t imagine, though, not opening something that was obviously personally addressed to me from one human being to another.
‘Really?’ I asked with the innocence of the uninformed. ‘What do you do with it?’
‘Either write “return to sender” on the envelope and give it back to the postal worker, or simply toss the thing, unopened.’
‘Michael York’ leaned forward to address us. ‘In truth, since September 11, 2001, and the anthrax scare, publishers don’t open mail unless it’s from a reputable literary agent.’
‘Are you a publisher?’ I asked.
‘No. A “reputable literary agent.”’ The man cracked a small smile, but didn’t extend his hand. ‘I hope you’ll forgive me for not shaking hands, but I fear contagion.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ I said, though he hadn’t shown any symptoms. ‘You’re not feeling well?’
‘No, no. I’m just fine,’ the agent said, hands still rotating his hat like the steering wheel of a car doing perpetual doughnuts. ‘Now.’
‘Our Carson is not only a renowned agent, but a renowned germaphobe,’ Potter said dryly.
Ahh, I got it. Not being contagious, the agent really did ‘fear contagion.’
‘I haven’t shaken hands with anyone for over ten years,’ Carson said proudly.
‘Truly?’ I was trying to imagine the business meetings and conferences, parties and receptions the agent must have been invited to during the span of more than a decade. ‘Isn’t that a little awkward in your line of work?’
‘My clients understand,’ the literary agent said, now with a genuine smile.
‘They understand he’s a nut job,’ Prudence cracked out of the corner of her mouth.
‘One that negotiates some of the biggest advances in our industry,’ Potter countered.
I glanced at my seat companion in surprise. It was the first time I’d heard Laurence Potter say anything positive about anyone.
Except himself, of course.
‘Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you,’ I said to the agent. ‘And your costume is wonderful. Count Andrenyi, the Hungarian diplomat.’
‘Costume?’ He looked down at the hat in his hand.
Uh-oh. I got a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. ‘I’m sorry. I just thought … umm, I mean, you look so much like Michael York, who played the role in the, umm …’
The man exploded with laughter. ‘I’m sorry, my dear, but I couldn’t help myself.’ He held up a badge encased in a plastic sandwich bag. It read, ‘Carson/Count Andrenyi.’
Oh, thank the Lord. At least the germaphobe had a sense of humor. ‘So you are playing the count tonight.’
‘I am, and apparently I’ve nailed the role.’ Carson the agent/count was pleased with himself.
‘Carson was originally on Broadway,’ the man in the checkered sports jacket said from behind me. ‘In fact, we worked together way back when. Rosemary Darlington was in theater, as well.’
‘What interesting career paths,’ I said, meaning it. ‘Actor, agent, writer—’
‘A lot of young people come to New York to study theater,’ Carson said. ‘Just as they flock to Los Angeles for the movie industry. Most of us end up doing other things. Only a very few can make a living at acting and even fewer become famous.’
‘That’s not so different to writing,’ Markus said. ‘How many writers give up their day jobs?’
‘More than should,’ Potter observed acerbically.
‘That’s true,’ Carson agreed, whether because the reviewer had bolstered the agent a minute before or not. ‘Writing fiction is, at best, project work. You start one book and hope you have a contract to publish another by the time the first is finished. And that the successor sells once it, too, is published. Nothing like a twice-monthly, automatically deposited payroll check, by any means.’
‘Even the best writers have gaps between books,’ Grace contributed. ‘Look at our Rosemary. Breaking and Entering came out nearly five years after her last book.’
‘Is she one of your clients?’ I asked the agent. The more I learned about these bizarre people, God help me, the more I wanted to know.
‘No, but she’s represented by another agent at my firm, Natanya Sorensen, who was supposed to be here and play countess to my count.’ He directed a smile toward me.
I returned it. ‘You’re … countess-less, then?’
‘Natanya had the sniffles, and I insisted she stay home and take care of herself.’
‘Good thing the woman listened,’ I heard Prudence mutter. ‘Or he’d have sealed her up inside a Baggie, too.’
Undaunted by the jibe, Carson continued his train of thought. ‘I’m afraid Missy was very disappointed.’
‘That’s because she’s a control freak,’ Prudence said.
‘That’s unfair,’ Grace protested. ‘Missy’s worked very hard to put this together for us.’
‘I managed events for a large corporation up north,’ I said, ‘and I would’ve loved to include someone with Missy’s initiative on my staff. Did you know she’s driving Rosemary Darlington to the train station because the guest of honor didn’t want to ride the bus?’
‘Oh, dear,’ our other guest of honor said, eyebrows knitting theatrically as he looked up from his magazine. ‘I do hope it wasn’t anything I said.’
What an ass. ‘Didn’t you realize you’d be doing this event together when you wrote that review of her book?’
‘Of course,’ Potter said. ‘What would that matter?’
I shrugged. ‘I assumed it would be just … awkward.’
Prudence snorted. ‘As you can see, Larry’s not the sensitive type.’
‘If authors can’t take criticism,’ Potter said, ‘they shouldn’t be putting their work out there for everyone to read. The same for so-called authorities writing on their subjects. Am I right, Markus?’
Markus shifted uncomfortably. ‘Well, yes. Reviews are certainly a recognized part of the industry.’
‘Are you a published author?’ I asked.
‘More of a fan.’
‘Fan?’
‘Oh, don’t listen to his self-deprecating bullshit.’ Prudence the Princess confirmed her potty-mouth. ‘Markus is a librarian, as well as a writer in his own right.’
Markus glanced uneasily at Potter, once again engrossed in his magazine. ‘Just non-fiction. Readers guides and the like.’
‘Writers don’t exist without readers,’ Grace pointed out.
‘Your attention, please!’ Zoe was standing up in the front of the bus, her hand on Pavlik’s shoulder. Just for balance, I’m sure. ‘We’re approaching the station and since we’re running late, I’d appreciate everyone exiting the bus quickly and moving to the
train.’
She broke off and leaned down to look out the window, her breasts practically fwopping against Pavlik’s cheeks.
‘Oh, thank God,’ Zoe said, straightening up and tucking a boob back in. ‘Rosemary has just arrived.’
‘Oh, thank God,’ Laurence Potter echoed, gathering up his briefcase. Then a sigh before the words: ‘That woman will be the death of me yet.’
FIVE
‘So what’s the deal?’ I asked Pavlik when I joined him outside the bus.
‘How do you mean?’ The sheriff seemed uneasy, like a man who feared he was walking into a trap. ‘I guess this must be a tourist train. You know, like the wine one in the Napa Valley or that Tootsie railroad in North Carolina’s High Country.’
I waved away the fact that we were standing in front of something that looked more like a movie set than a train station that actually transported people who needed to reach somewhere. ‘In North Carolina, it’s “Tweetsie,” not “Tootsie,” but I didn’t mean that. I was talking about the obvious friction.’
‘Friction? Between who?’ Pavlik looked even more uncomfortable. And why? After all, I hadn’t asked what you get when you rub a sheriff and a conference organizer together.
Instead, I said, ‘It’s “between whom,” I think. Around writers, better get that stuff right. And the “friction” I meant is between Laurence Potter and Rosemary Darlington, of course.’
‘Oh.’ Pavlik’s face relaxed. ‘I don’t have a clue.’
‘It seems to go beyond professional. Larry seems to take Rosemary’s new book as a personal affront.’
Pavlik was smiling now. ‘“Larry”? Are you going to call him that the entire time, just to provoke the man?’
Of course. And Zoe Scarlett will continue to call you ‘Jacob’ in that possessively arch way just to provoke me. It’s what we do.
I shrugged. ‘It seems to be what everybody calls Potter. And besides, from what we’ve seen so far, it doesn’t look like much is required to provoke him.’
We were following Zoe through the deserted train station. It was then the light dawned on me. ‘Ah, the dragon kimono. I get it.’
‘Kimono?’
‘In Murder on the Orient Express. Zoe’s wrap dress has a dragon design on the back, see? It’s a more modern’ – and sluttier – ‘version of the red kimono Christie gave to one of her characters.’ I looked at Pavlik. ‘You have seen the movie, right?’
‘No, but I read the book, which will probably endear me to more people at a writers’ conference.’
‘Movies are written, too,’ I pointed out. ‘And I have to believe that every aspiring writer here would also love a movie deal – oh, this must be our train.’
Not much of a stretch, since there was but one. Missy, having delivered her charge safely to the station, was squatting down in her furs and evening dress, teetering precariously on her high heels as she tried to tape a banner to one of the cars.
‘You go on,’ I said to Pavlik. ‘I might as well earn my keep by seeing if Missy needs help.’
‘I’ll save you a seat this time.’ Pavlik gave me a quick kiss on the lips.
‘I’d like that.’ I felt rewarded for not making a big deal – or any deal at all, in fact – about Zoe and the seating arrangement on the bus.
As Pavlik continued on to the rest of the group milling around on the platform, I skirted the crowd, noticing Danny the supposed sycophant talking again with the sports-jacketed former actor from the bus. The two were standing on the fringe of the herd, the plaid of the older man’s jacket even gaudier in the lights of the station. He seemed to be pointing out people of interest – or more likely, of note – to the newcomer.
‘Oh, dear!’
I reached Missy just in time to catch a corner she had just secured – or tried, with duct tape, to secure – before it peeled away and brushed the railbed. ‘Can I give you a hand?’
‘Oh, thank you,’ Missy said gratefully. ‘I’d planned to have this all done before your bus arrived, but the traffic on my “shortcut” was heavier than I expected.’
‘It was good of you to drive Rosemary Darlington,’ I said, smoothing the banner. ‘Given what I’ve seen, the farther apart you keep her and Laurence Potter, the better.’
Though admittedly not nearly as much fun for onlookers like me, who always appreciated being witness to a train wreck.
Not that I wanted to jinx the poor young woman’s project.
‘I didn’t mind driving.’ Missy swept her hat off and swiped her forehead with the back of the same hand. Wearing a fur coat in eighty degrees Fahrenheit must have been taking its toll, even on a Floridian. ‘Rosemary suffers from motion sickness and buses are the worst. I hope she’ll be all right on our trip tonight.’
‘Eric – that’s my son – gets car sick, but he’s fine on trains as long as he’s facing forward.’ Which made me recall that passenger cars often had half the seats facing rearward.
‘I suggested that to Rosemary,’ Missy said, replacing her hat. ‘Facing forward and, as you say, as far away from Laurence Potter as possible.’
The last was said under her breath and she glanced over at me, just seeming to realize it’d been said aloud. ‘They …’ Missy hesitated, ‘… have a history.’
Hmm. An affair gone wrong would certainly explain the venom with which Potter had criticized Darlington’s literary side-trip to the erotic. Maybe I’d read the book just to see if one of the characters was a tall, bald man. ‘So Larry Potter and Rosemary Darlington had a personal relationship?’
But Missy had colored up. And, apparently, decided to clam up as well. ‘Conference rumors, I’m sure. Please don’t say you heard anything from me, Maggy.’
‘Of course not.’ I was thinking about my dentist husband and the years of conferences he and his hygienist had attended so the office could ‘stay current.’ Undoubtedly there’d been ‘rumors’ in the dental community back then. I only wish somebody had bothered to share them with me. ‘What happens in Fort Lauderdale, stays in Fort Lauderdale, right?’ I said, echoing my earlier words to Pavlik in the hotel lobby.
Missy’s eyes went wide. ‘What do you mean?’
My turn to blush. I had no business inflicting my hard-earned cynicism on the next generation. Besides, if Laurence Potter – or anybody else – was playing musical beds, it was none of my business. I changed the subject. ‘Are you a writer yourself, Missy?’
‘No, not really. More a researcher.’
‘That must be interesting. For authors?’
Missy moved the scissors aside with her toe and bent down to pick up the roll of duct tape while still holding up her end of the banner. ‘Almost exclusively now. At first, I didn’t get paid or anything, I just helped authors whose work I enjoyed.’
‘That was certainly nice of you.’
‘I was having a tough time getting a job in library science, what with all the budget cuts, and this gave me something to do – something I loved.’
‘Library science,’ I repeated. ‘So how did you end up in event management?’
‘You mean helping with the conference?’ Missy looked surprised. ‘Oh, that’s just a volunteer post. It’s not what I do for a living.’
‘You don’t get paid?’
‘I get my hotel room comped, and I don’t pay for the conference, of course. Plus, I meet such interesting people.’
An increase in the chatter coming from the ‘interesting people’ milling about on the platform drew my attention. The natives were getting restless. And Zoe Scarlett, of course, was nowhere to be seen to settle them down. ‘You couldn’t pay me enough to take orders from that woman.’
‘Zoe?’ Missy shot me a smile. ‘She’s not so bad, truly, though I think her divorce has left her a bit off balance.’
Not surprising, given the size of the woman’s new breasts. I refocused my attention on Missy. ‘… has contacts everywhere, which is crucial,’ she was saying. ‘She really put this conference together.’
>
‘If you say so.’ I’d had experience with ‘idea’ people who were only too happy to hand off their ideas to other people – like Missy – to implement. And guess who’d take all the credit? ‘But you seem to be the one who gets things done.’
‘It’s mainly logistics. Which is why, between you and me, I’m so excited about tonight.’ She lowered her voice. ‘I want to show everyone, including our guests of honor, that I’m capable of more creative things. Who knows where that might lead?’
Probably to Zoe dumping even more work onto her unpaid assistant. ‘But how do you pay the bills? You said you didn’t get paid for the research either.’
‘That’s changed, happily. A girl has to earn a living.’ Missy tried a longer piece of tape, this time attempting to wrap it around a rope attached to the top of the banner.
Well, that was good, at least. ‘Can you say who your clients are, or is that kept confidential?’
‘I always ask about the confidentiality issues, because it varies from writer to writer. Everyone here, though, knows I’ve worked for Rosemary Darlington.’ Missy took her hands away from the precariously hung banner. ‘That’s why she agreed to come to Mystery 101.’
‘Wow, that’s impressive. Zoe apparently isn’t the only one with contacts.’
The girl looked pleased and not only because the banner seemed to be holding. ‘Oh, it was nothing, really.’
‘Not true. As you said regarding Zoe, contacts are crucial in event planning.’ But I wanted to hear more about the research, especially in regard to Rosemary Darlington. ‘Did you work on Breaking and Entering?’
A quick sidelong look. Missy seeming uncertain about my motives for asking. I held up my hands. ‘Hey, I haven’t read the book. I’m not judging.’
‘Oh, not that kind of research,’ Missy said with a slightly embarrassed smile. ‘Heavens, I’m sure Rosemary … well, I don’t mean to say she has more experience, but … Oh, dear, I’m still making a mess of this.’
The banner took another dive and I made a grab for it. ‘I’m not sure even duct tape is up to this job.’
But I was also fairly certain the banner-hanging wasn’t what Missy thought she’d messed up. Or, at least, not the only thing.
